


stormless blossoms of the seven sunrises

by Ankal



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: And they know it, Domestic Fluff, I love them so much, M/M, Platonic Relationships, domestic oiken, their relationship is a poem, written as a gift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28009740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ankal/pseuds/Ankal
Summary: To know that there is a safety net below him, that there always will be Kenma’s arms wrapping around him in case something goes wrong makes Oikawa feel so warm, so soft, so vulnerable to the intense love seeping into his bones with every delicate brush of fingers on his cheek. It also adds an invincibility layer to Oikawa’s aura, knowing that there always will be this soft brown voice, tinted with smells of wet soil, reminding him that this is not the end, and it will be alright. Kenma’s love reminds him of lazy sunset drives, an open car, hair shuffling above smiles, slices of orange light kissing their cheekbones and getting lost in the shadows.He inhales and exhales through his mouth, regulating his breathing.
Relationships: Kozume Kenma & Oikawa Tooru, mentions of kyoutani / yahaba, platonic - Relationship, ushioi and iwaoi if you squint
Comments: 8
Kudos: 11





	stormless blossoms of the seven sunrises

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silveriss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silveriss/gifts).



> This is for Zoé, as an early Christmas present.  
> For my sun, who is born anew every time I need her, and warms me up as I try to reach her from the firm solid earth I'm grounded with. I love you, and I hope we spend every upcoming new year and special day together.  
> Here is us, in different but familiar lives.

**_tale of the lake and the mountain_ **

_mon cœur,  
_ _there is an old story with lights beside the lake  
_ _where time only exists in flower blooms  
_ _and the bird songs.  
_ _there are lanterns and softly spoken words  
_ _warm pillows,  
_ _forgotten touches and quiet shutting of doors.  
_ _there are lilies for me,  
_ _and hand-drawn symbols for you,  
_ _all waves, curves and dots.  
_ _we have wooden walls for your paint,  
_ _and mirrors for us to speak  
_ _kilns so we can grow extensions_  
_and porches to watch the sun die  
and rise again every time._

*

Yahaba sits across Oikawa, fiddling with his fingers. Oikawa takes another confident sip of his white chocolate mocha and impatiently taps his foot.

“So, Oikawa-san, thank you for meeting me today. I’ve heard your ballet rehearsals have been intense lately.”

“We have upcoming shows, so that’s for sure.” Oikawa huffs tiredly, but then a high pitched and gleeful laugh leaves his lips as he looks down at his drink. “You’re paying for the coffee, Yahaba-chan, so I’m not complaining. What’s up?” 

“Well…” Yahaba hesitates, seemingly trying to form a coherent sentence. “I’ve been with Kyoutani for a while, you know.”

“How _does_ someone make a relationship with Mad Dog-chan work?” Oikawa teases and giggles, perhaps a bit meanly. 

The fact that he’s merely teasing apparently doesn’t really come across, because Yahaba frowns. Oikawa raises one of his perfectly manicured brows - he spends time on his grooming to achieve maximum impact with his gestures in situations exactly like this.

“It’s actually… about that,” he says, barely audible, as if he doesn’t want to admit it. 

Oikawa looks at him, eyebrow still raised slightly, waiting for an explanation.

“So… you know him…”

“What’s the problem, Yahaba-chan?” Oikawa asks, now getting somewhat impatient, head tilting to one side. 

Yahaba flinches at the direct question. Then, he sighs. 

“I don’t know if he understands the basics of a relationship,” he admits. 

“Like what?” 

“I don’t know if he… like, for example, when I complain about something he’s always there to tell me what to do and what not to do, but he never puts himself in my shoes to understand where I’m really coming from,” Yahaba says in one breath. 

Oikawa’s brow gets impossibly closer to his hairline.

“Last week, I was talking about dropping out of college,” Yahaba confesses. “I’m not sure if my major is what I want to work with all my life. And he was in my face, telling me to drop it instantly, but he didn’t even give me the time to share my worries, you know?”

Oikawa hums.

*

  1. **You respect each other.**



“We’ve known each other for a year and we’ve been dating for three months now, and he just cancelled it like that… And he hasn’t even _apologized yet._ Not that I’d accept it at this point,” Oikawa huffs, finally ending his rant about Iwaizumi cancelling their monthly celebration date. He puts his head into hands, and doesn’t raise it until he hears Kenma speak. 

“Tooru, do you just want to rant, or do you want to hear my thoughts about this?” Kenma’s voice is gentle and hesitant.

Oikawa thinks about it for a moment and then looks at Kenma, certain that Kenma will read the agony he is feeling about this situation clearly on his face; they know each other too well.

“Yeah. Sure. Tell me your thoughts.”

“So…” Kenma says, pausing to think, shifting on the couch and collecting his legs under him. “I don’t mean to overstep.”

“I know,” Oikawa says, because he _does_ know that but it’s still so heartwarming for Kenma to remind him. He knows Kenma will not cross the boundaries between them; the majority of them are unspoken, but always respected nonetheless. It’s what makes Kenma _the_ person he runs to, always. Not someone Oikawa is romantically involved with, not a stranger at a bar, not a classmate. It’s always Kenma, his safe space. The person who will understand him, know how to handle him, know where to be blunt and which lines not to cross.

He looks at Kenma, waiting for him to continue. 

“Tooru, _you_ are the reason for this specific conflict.”

“What do you mean?” Oikawa tilts his head to the side, the defensiveness gone just like it always does when Kenma speaks to him in this voice, trying to understand. “But I didn’t even do anything?”

“Yes, that’s the exact problem,” Kenma says, his voice still gentle. “Listen, I know how much work you put into this relationship. But you didn’t _tell_ Iwaizumi anything, so he doesn’t know you hate breaking plans.”

“I...” Oikawa says, drifting off. “No, but isn’t it obvious? I never cancel plans unless I absolutely _have_ to.”

“But, Tooru,” Kenma says, compassionate and still so, so gentle, the way most people believe him incapable of being. “ _I_ know you, so I _know_ this. But your relationship with Iwaizumi is still relatively new, so _he_ doesn’t know. You have to tell him what you want.”

“I… didn’t.” Oikawa’s eyes widen with surprise. “So… you mean… he didn’t know?”

“Yes.”

“Kenma… did I yell at him for nothing?” He feels his eyes widen even more, and he knows that his panic is written clearly in them, easy for Kenma to read. 

“No, Tooru,” Kenma says, putting a hand onto Oikawa’s shoulder, petting it gently. “You were also upset.”

“So… I should apologize?”

“I mean, someone has to initiate the process,” Kenma says, his voice thoughtful. “It’s not just your fault, too. He could have been more observant.”

“Yeah…” Oikawa blinks, trying to put his thoughts into order. “Yeah. You’re right. He didn’t know.” 

Kenma hums quietly, waiting for Oikawa to reach his conclusions himself, his hand still caressing Oikawa’s shoulder softly. His fingers are warm, and the warmth of the touch, the measured gentleness, they all seep through Oikawa’s clothes until they fill his chest, warming him up in an intense, loving light from the inside.

Kenma is caught off guard when Oikawa launches himself forward, overcome with fondness, hugging Kenma’s waist and shoving his head into his chest. “Kyanmaaaaaaa, what would I _do_ without youuuuuu?????”

Kenma laughs softly. “You would do just fine, Tooru.”

“No.” 

Oikawa is sure that Kenma knows he is pouting. And he, in return, knows that Kenma’s smiling in response.

“Will you talk to him now, or later?” Kenma’s smooth voice rumbles through his chest and against Oikawa’s ear.

“Mmm,” Oikawa says. “I think I need more time to cool off, still. The way he defended himself was _annoying.”_

“Okay,” Kenma says. “Do you feel in the mood for baking a batch of brownies? You can give him some as an apology, too.”

“Ah!” Oikawa raises his head, bumping into Kenma’s chin, making him wince. 

“Aaah, Kenma! I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry-” Oikawa immediately apologizes, kissing his chin and hugging him once more. 

“It’s okay,” Kenma says, rubbing the spot.

“Okay. Brownies sound amazing!” Oikawa is smiling again, excited at the idea of enveloping their house with the smell of warm chocolate goodness. 

The best thing about baking brownies is not the brownies themselves, though. It’s actually doing it with Kenma. 

He is a wonder in the kitchen, and his skill around it makes Oikawa feel like he’s an eager apprentice, trying to learn. Despite Oikawa’s surprising clumsiness in the kitchen, Kenma has taught him how to survive cooking without disasters over the years, and Oikawa would even go so far as to say that he’s been a fairly competent student. These days Kenma does the simple things, like pouring the flour or measuring the milk and lets Oikawa do the rest.

And suffice to say, Oikawa is a fast learner. In no time, he will surely take Kenma’s throne in the kitchen.

But Oikawa wants to cook with him all the same. He can feel love bubbling and healing him every time he thinks of the expression on Kenma’s face when he opens the oven to check on the brownies. How he inhales deeply while the smell spreads through the house, and the way he shuts his eyes while humming happily at the first bite. Even when Oikawa inevitably cracks the egg so hard that they need to take a couple of minutes to take the shell pieces out of the mix, Kenma seems content, humming along to the game soundtrack he has open in the background.

A memory knocks on the door suddenly, and Oikawa finds himself grinning. The annoyed look on Kenma’s face when Oikawa, once, as a joke, threw an egg at him and it cracked on Kenma’s hair - definitely among the highlights of their kitchen adventures so far. Kenma looked like a cat doused with a bucket of water when Oikawa justified the action by teasingly saying “it’s at least _some_ bit of hair care.” 

“Okay,” Kenma says, unaware of Oikawa’s walk down the memory lane and probably just waiting for him to untangle himself so he can stand up. “We are out of eggs, though.”

“I’ll get them, don’t worry,” Oikawa says, still smiling, and bends over to pick up his wallet from the coffee table. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, thanks,” Kenma says, reaching over to take his phone. “I’ll preheat the oven.”

“Okay, babe,” Oikawa smiles wider, already standing. “I’ll be back in ten!”

*

“Then you need to explain yourself,” Oikawa says, not sure why he has to state something so obvious. “Did you tell him how you feel?”

“Not really,” Yahaba sighs again and puts his elbows on the table, mindlessly picking at the coffee cup holder. “I don’t know if he’ll listen to me without interrupting me every three seconds, you know?”

“How do you feel about that?” Oikawa asks. He usually doesn’t stoop down enough to help people with their introspections, simply because he’s not their mother. But Yahaba looks so worried, biting his bottom lip, and it seems like he’s only a few seconds away from a meltdown.

As expected, Yahaba blurts out his emotions in a frenzy. “I don’t feel accepted at all! Whenever I’m feeling something intensely, he’s there to just - tell me to snap out of it. I’m so annoyed with it, but during it, I feel so hurt because I just need _support.”_

Oikawa nods wordlessly, waiting for him to continue.

*

  1. **You're vulnerable with each other.** ****



There is the familiar rattling of the key in the door, and Kenma hears the door open only to be closed after a few seconds without any announcements or flamboyant gestures about how the day was a success. He frowns. This cannot be good.

He checks his phone to make sure he has not missed any messages. He hasn’t.

So… Tooru probably wasn’t chosen in the ballet audition he’d been talking about for months. Kenma bites the inside of his cheek. 

There is no way Tooru’s dealing well with this right now. 

He hears the clank of a glass being put onto the counter, the splash of liquid being poured and the shuffling of fabrics. Kenma hesitates. If he goes out now, he will definitely witness a breakdown.

But if he doesn’t go now, Tooru will have the breakdown on his own. 

It’s an easy decision.

He opens the door, and turns to walk towards the kitchen. The light is on, but it’s empty. Kenma turns his worried gaze towards the living room, turning on the dim lamp at the entrance to see better.

Tooru is there, curled up in a ball on the couch, not moving. He lifts his head when the dim light softly flickers on; his eyes are bloodshot.

The worry sits threateningly heavy in Kenma’s gut. His chest tightens at seeing Tooru like this. 

He doesn’t say anything, though, knowing that Tooru’s emotions are too intense for him to voice them out loud now, as they are with every heavy hassle life throws at him. So Kenma just goes ahead and sits down next to him. He opens his arms, and Tooru leans over, sinking into them, placing his head on Kenma’s chest and fiddling with his hands on his lap. Kenma wraps his arms around him, chin resting on top of the soft, brown tufts, hoping only that he can make Tooru feel somewhat less alone.

Oikawa sighs deeply. His hands are fidgeting as he occasionally hiccups, and silent drops are falling. He doesn’t know where to start, or how to explain. Or what to explain. Since it’s simple. 

He was not good enough.

Another tear drops, and Oikawa doesn’t attempt to stop crying. This, of all places, is where he can freely let it go and Kenma, of all people, is the person who will understand. Not relate, but _understand,_ which is a completely different thing. He could have talked about this to any of his friends at the conservatory, and they would relate, but nothing comes close to Kenma listening to him carefully, listening not to reply but to understand, and exposing undiscovered sides of Oikawa without any judgement.

Oikawa can feel the worn fabric of Kenma’s sweatshirt, the smell of the softener familiar as it clings to both of their clothes, and he can smell Kenma’s shampoo. It smells like citrus and lavender. Like home. 

Having Kenma against him and the comforting scents of their sanctuary slowly detangle the knotted thorns and pain in his chest in a way nothing else does, not even lying in the dark in his own bed. 

These feelings of safety and belonging suddenly hit him with full force, breaking a chord in his chest, and he sobs openly, head falling onto Kenma’s lap. He can feel a gentle hand finding its way into his hair, untangling and petting it softly, straying from its path to wipe away his tears every once in a while. Kenma leans over, carefully, probably trying to not dislodge him, and grabs the tissue box from the coffee table. He takes one out and hands it to Oikawa.

Oikawa just cries, mumbling nonsense, until he feels his sinuses are full and his head throbs. He lets the disappointment, his injured self-worth, the bitter taste of defeat roll down his cheeks and wrack his body. It feels awful to let all these emotions seize him at once with hardly taken shaky breaths, but he knows that he’s safe, at least, here. It hurts, it _fucking_ _hurts_ , but he’s where he’s free to show the wound and let it heal.

He’s home. He’s alright. He’s with Kenma. He is safe.

Kenma makes sure to remind him of that with every caress on his hair.

Oikawa finally blows his nose loudly again and throws the balled up tissue next to the many others on the table. He tries to sit upright, but the heaviness of his head doesn’t allow him, so he opts for laying his head onto Kenma’s chest again, throwing his legs over Kenma’s lap. He tries to sniff, but his nasal passage is completely blocked, and he cannot inhale through his nose in any way. He sighs.

Kenma’s hand lingers over his cheek, pressing a warm palm onto it. He gently kisses Oikawa’s head, nuzzling his hair, breathing slowly, and brings one hand down to Oikawa’s thigh to pull him impossibly closer. 

Oikawa knows, from years of friendship, that Kenma does not touch people unless he has to. But he practices the secret, reverent act of comforting Oikawa with touches whenever he is all over the place; there are the forehead kisses, the caresses that remind Oikawa of fresh spring mornings and leaves peacefully floating on rivers, the soft holds that tell him he is free to move away but Kenma will be there if he wants him close. 

To know Kenma behind closed doors is something. But to know he not only left his comfort zone years ago to touch Oikawa, but has learned his love language and now is speaking it comfortably with perfect accents is something entirely different, and it makes something crack in Oikawa’s chest, letting the warm liquid seep out and drown him in its soft touch. 

He is aware of the nuzzling in his hair, the soft hand on his thigh, the palm against his cheek. He knows Kenma is trying to be there for him, and judging by the relief Oikawa feels as soon as he enters the house and finds Kenma inside, it’s working. 

And Oikawa is eternally grateful to have someone who’s willing to cross so many lines for him. 

Kenma waits patiently, maybe oblivious to this train of thought, but probably far too familiar with Oikawa’s shenanigans. More than Oikawa is familiar with himself, anyway. Kenma is always there to take care of him much better than Oikawa could do for himself, and they are way past the point of being embarrassed by this fact. It is what it is. 

Especially since that first night years ago when Oikawa was crying himself to sleep in his bedroom; Kenma came along and asked what he could do to make Oikawa feel better, and even _agreed_ to cuddling Oikawa until he fell asleep. That was the first touch, the first clear sign from Kenma, showing his intentions about making Oikawa feel better. And ever since that night, Oikawa never feels alone when he comes home and collapses.

To know that there is a safety net below him, that there always will be Kenma’s arms wrapping around him in case something goes wrong makes Oikawa feel so warm, so _soft_ , so vulnerable to the intense love seeping into his bones with every delicate brush of fingers on his cheek. It also adds an invincibility layer to Oikawa’s aura, knowing that there always will be this soft brown voice, tinted with smells of wet soil, reminding him that this is not the end, and it will be alright. Kenma’s love reminds him of lazy sunset drives, an open car, hair shuffling above smiles, slices of orange light kissing their cheekbones and getting lost in the shadows. He inhales and exhales through his mouth, regulating his breathing. 

Kenma speaks slowly.

“Are you okay?”

Oikawa nods, too tired to keep crying but his eyes filling with tears nonetheless. 

“It’s just…” he says, surprised at how thick his voice is. He clears his throat, and tries again. “Kageyama was just… amazing… and I apparently wasn’t…”

Oikawa knows that Kenma knows how much he _hates_ to admit that. 

He also knows that Kenma won’t say a word about it.

“Tooru,” he says softly. 

“Kenma, he was so balanced and emotional,” Oikawa whines, ignoring the gentle voice. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He looks like he found himself some way to grow, and now there’s no stopping it.”

“Tooru,” Kenma says again, not a bit phased by the rapid speech. “It’s alright. This was for just one show.”

“The most important one though.” Two tears fall onto Kenma’s fingers on Oikawa’s lap, where Kenma’s holding his left hand. Oikawa wipes them away with his own fingers. He then brings his hand to his face, wiping away that wetness. “This was it. This determines if we’ll be recommended to the companies.”

“It’s not the only way the companies will hear about you though,” Kenma says, cupping his cheek and pressing him more onto his own chest. Oikawa feels the warmth glow within him, a soft golden light shining through his cracks, indicating healing, and he gently closes his eyes.

“I know.”

“And you seem to have forgotten the numerous competitions you’ve won,” Kenma continues, his voice gentle, warm in the hues of light oak wood and loving, almost humorous. “You’ve been titled _The Great King_ , Tooru. People _know_ about you.”

Oikawa lets the reminder tweak his emotions a little. “I know.”

“So please, don’t stress so much over this. I promise everything will turn out just fine in the end.” 

Kenma turns Oikawa’s face towards his own, and looks at him with warm, serene golden eyes. He leans forward, and presses a kiss onto Oikawa’s forehead. 

Oikawa’s eyes flutter shut and he believes him, the relief surging through him like a wave kissing the shore and returning back to the ocean within an eternal cycle. 

“Okay.”

*

“And he doesn’t even let me close,” Yahaba whines, his rant reaching full power as he lets his emotions go. “I haven’t even met his family. And we’ve been together for _four months now._ He keeps cancelling plans for visiting our hometowns, and the only person I met was his flatmate because _I had to_ because he didn’t answer his phone for a whole day, and I was worried.”

“Does he do that often?” Oikawa asks, mildly intrigued.

“Yeah. He shuts down completely, and never tells me what’s going on until it’s over. I’m guessing he doesn’t like to be vulnerable with his emotions, but I had a _meltdown_ next to him while I was fighting with my sister.”

“I’m guessing he was not really supportive then as well?” Oikawa says, trying not to be condescending and definitely failing. _Why_ is he bothering to keep this relationship up?

“He snatched the phone from my hand and screamed at my sister to shut up, so I don’t know,” Yahaba says.

Oikawa purses his lips to not laugh, because _well._

*

  1. **You have total trust in each other.**



His phone rings with the special tone that tightens Kenma’s chest. He stops his work on the computer briefly to pick it up. “Hello?”

“Hello, Kenma.” His father’s voice is as bored as ever, and Kenma can practically see his lips curved downwards on his face, where a smile is a despised stranger. “How are you?”

“Good, Dad. How are you?” Kenma asks, only out of courtesy. And because he doesn’t want to deal with another rant about how he was raised with utmost care but turned out to be a rude piece of garbage.

“Fine,” his dad says curtly. “Are you alright with money?”

“Yes, thank you,” Kenma blurts out, a headache already forming between his brows. 

“How’s school?”

“It’s fine.” Kenma knows no answer will be enough.

“Fine. Although I still don’t understand why you’re studying that graphics shit. Who is ever gonna _hire…”_ Kenma’s door cracks open slightly. Tooru cranes his neck in – he must have heard the ringtone. Kenma motions him to come.

Tooru silently pads in, and sits on the edge of the bed while Kenma puts the call on speakers, such a vulnerable action that it would spike his anxiety to the sky years ago but feels natural now. 

“... what is the point, is what I’m asking. What will you even do after you graduate? It’s pointless. You could have enrolled in law or engineering with your scores, you know…” 

As he rambles on, Kenma feels Tooru’s hand gently holding his. They exchange glances, and Tooru sighs. To be able to share his frustration with someone who understands him deeply lightens the weight on Kenma’s chest a little, uncoiling the invisible chords around him. He knows Tooru doesn’t relate, with his own difficult relationship with his parents and all, but he understands. And tries, every time, to understand more. 

Kenma squeezes Tooru’s hand, thanking him. Tooru smiles with sadness glowing at the edges. 

“... and it would pay you so much better. You know you can’t rely on us forever, you need to get a job and be independent, stay upright all on your own. At this rate I just don’t know if you’ll make it. I’m just concerned, Kenma.”

“I know, Dad,” is all Kenma can say. He just _does not_ want to listen to this rambling _again_ , every single week _the same goddamn call._ “Thank you for your support,” he spits out, the words bitter on his tongue. 

Tooru leans forward, one elbow on Kenma’s desk, and rubs his forehead with his left hand without letting go of Kenma’s. Kenma watches as he shakes his head with frustration, and he can almost hear Tooru’s exhausted thought of _why does he do this every single time?_

Kenma doesn’t know. 

“Yeah,” his dad says flatly. 

“How’s mom?” Kenma asks, hoping to diffuse the tension somewhat. But really, is there any topic he could talk about with his father without this crippling tension?

He doesn’t think there is.

“Fine. Drunk as always, but fine,” his dad says, thankfully distracted from his rant about how Kenma is an utter failure with his life choices. “You can call tomorrow if you want to hear her voice. She’s almost asleep now.”

“Okay,” Kenma says. _No, thank you._ His mother is barely coherent when they’re on the phone, almost not present, gently asking if he’s doing alright but never really there for his problems or anything shared deeply. Kenma doesn’t remember the last time he was vulnerable to her and got a decent response without her silent sigh and neutral hand on his shoulder. 

Yeah, that was what he might need sometimes, but not with _everything._ Some things called for actual communication. With words or clear actions. And _Kenma_ was saying that, so.

He exhales with frustration.

“If you’re alright, I’ll hang up,” his father signals the end of the conversation. Thankfully. “Anything to say?”

“No, Dad. See you later,” Kenma answers, his fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“See ya, kiddo,” his dad says, and the line clicks. 

“Dear _god,”_ Tooru says, his fist almost hitting the desk. “What is his _deal?”_

“I don’t know,” Kenma mumbles. 

“Why doesn’t he just drop calling and text you,” Tooru rambles, eyes shining with frustration and unbidden protectiveness. “He is your _father._ He can’t even do _one_ thing correctly and remember you don’t like phone calls. Or he can’t do another _one thing_ correctly and change as a person.”

Kenma sighs. Tooru leans forward to wrap his arms around him, knowing that he doesn’t need a rant but support, and presses a soft kiss onto his collarbone. 

“Come on,” he says after breaking the hug. “Let’s take a break. I’ll make you some tea.”

Kenma whines. “Tooru, I really have to finish this.”

“You won’t be able to focus anyways, Ken-chan,” Tooru says, mockery hanging in the air, his fingers idly separating and bending strands from Kenma’s hair. “But seriously, babe, your father just happened again. Let’s take a break.”

“Ugh,” Kenma groans, defeated. “Fine.”

“Hold on,” Tooru replies. “I’m braiding your hair.”

Kenma laughs despite himself. 

“You don’t have to say it, but yes, I love it more when it’s braided,” Tooru huffs, glad he broke the tension. “You’re much prettier. Not that you’d come near my level in any way.”

“Thanks, Tooru,” Kenma says, rolling his eyes. “Is that why Matsukawa keeps asking you if I’m single, and laughs his ass off when someone makes a move on you?”

Tooru gasps. “How _dare_ you, he’s my _friend.”_

“Just asking, since he doesn’t think mentally stable people would fall for you.”

“You little shit,” Tooru says, lightly pulling on one strand of Kenma’s hair, making him laugh. 

*****

“And,” Yahaba continues without a pause, “he fucking told me to _cut my relationship with my sister._ ”

“Oh,” Oikawa says, no longer able to hold back his laughter. “That is _rich.”_

“I know, right?” Yahaba exclaims, a palm slapping the table with fury. “Like, okay, I’m aware there are problems. But I deal with them _my way,_ and the fact that he’s my boyfriend doesn’t permit him to go and boss me around.” He huffs in exasperation.

Oikawa crosses his legs as the story descends from bad to downright miserable. 

*

  1. **You respect each other's boundaries.**



Oikawa wakes up to the soft sunlight warming up his face before his alarm starts shrilling. He yawns, turns to the side, stretches and smiles.

Today is going to be a good day.

He slowly gets out of bed, only in boxers and fuzzy socks, and opens his door to make his way to the bathroom. The lovely smell of coffee hits him, and he turns to the kitchen instead, a big smile sitting comfortably on his face. 

He enters the kitchen rubbing his eyes, and Kenma is already there, making Oikawa a cup of coffee with just the right amount of milk and cream. He doesn’t turn around, but Oikawa can hear his smile in the warm “Good morning, Tooru.”

“Good morning, Kenma,” Oikawa says with a yawn, and Kenma hands him his cup of coffee, along with fruit and boiled egg for Oikawa’s breakfast already on the table. It ignites the feeling of running in the fields in his childhood, the _belonging_ he feels in this house, the fireflies buzzing and Oikawa watching them with wide, innocent eyes, dreaming of being reborn as one of them. 

Oikawa murmurs a soft thank you, still not awake, and takes a sip of the warm coffee.

“How do you make my coffee better than I do?” he asks, not really expecting an answer. 

Kenma grins at him.

“Have you slept yet?”

“No, I’ll go to bed in a little while,” Kenma says, wiping the counter clean of the coffee grounds.

“Have you made yourself tea?” 

Kenma doesn’t like coffee in the morning, which is something Oikawa will never understand. But he likes chamomile tea before he sleeps, and if Oikawa wakes up first he makes sure to put the kettle on before he proceeds with his own breakfast. But those mornings are rare, since Oikawa wakes up at 6 and Kenma usually goes to bed at 7, so he always beats Oikawa to it. 

Kenma grumbles. “No. The kettle needs to be cleaned… Too much work…”

Oikawa raises a brow, grinning at him. “You cleaned the moka pot, made me a batch of coffee, prepared breakfast and you’re too lazy to clean the kettle?” 

Kenma shrugs, taking a seat at the kitchen table. He is typing something on his phone furiously, and in a moment a frown appears on his face.

“What is it?” Oikawa asks, leaving his cup on the table to proceed with the kettle. 

Kenma is right, there is calcification at the bottom of the kettle. Oikawa hums, slowly awakening and coming to his senses, and opens the bottom cupboard to take out the vinegar. He pours some in, adds some tap water, and lights the stove.

“This idiot…” Kenma murmurs. He is still typing, the frown looking more permanent by the second. 

“Is it Lev?”

“Yeah,” Kenma says. “How does he even survive college? He forgot to turn in the work we finished, and it was due midnight. Now we’re going to lose points because _he_ forgot to click the goddamn _submit button.”_

Oikawa feels a bit more sober now, and makes an amused sound. “You chose to team up with him, Kenma.”

“Yes but if I don’t, he’ll fail the class!” Kenma groans, then puts his head into his hands. “Ten percent of the project. Gone. And I almost did all of it because he absolutely _sucks_ at narrative.”

“Aww,” Oikawa coos. “Now, now. If it isn’t the consequences of your own actions.”

“Shut up, Tooru,” Kenma snaps. “I did it for him.”

“Just get down on one knee and propose already,” Oikawa says while checking the kettle. 

Kenma grunts. “No feelings, thanks.”

Oikawa furrows his brows. He fiddles with the kettle a little, not wanting to snap Kenma out of the loving mornings they always share, but feels the need to ask nonetheless.

“Baby, are you still upset about Kuroo?” he asks, voice careful and measured.

Kenma raises his head, then props his chin on his palm. After a thoughtful silence, he speaks while staring at the table.

“I dreamt of him almost every night this week.”

“Aww, baby,” Oikawa says, leaving the kettle and walking to hug Kenma from behind. He bends at an awkward position, but still places his chin into the crook of Kenma’s neck.

“I don’t know, Tooru,” Kenma says after a silence, suddenly lost and desperate. “I don’t know how I’ll move on from this. They’ve been dating for months now. I should have forgotten him already.”

“Kenma,” Oikawa says softly. “You literally told me yesterday that there are no ‘should’s with emotions.”

“Ugh,” Kenma says, one hand slowly massaging his temple. “I just feel so stupid for being so hung up on him.”

Oikawa lets him go, and finally pours the contents of the kettle down the drain. Finally, it’s clean.

As he rinses the kettle, Oikawa says, “He is your first love.”

“I hate those words,” Kenma groans. Oikawa ignores him.

“And people say that that’s the hardest one to forget.”

“But I still _love him_ , Tooru,” Kenma says, voice almost a whisper. 

Oikawa feels the corners of his own mouth bend downwards. He knows. 

He already knew Kenma was dreaming of things he didn’t want to dream about, because in the last week Kenma woke him up in the middle of the night and asked to share his bed, twice, which he does when he cannot fall asleep. It took them months and multiple explanations from Oikawa that no, it would not bother him to be awakened at night if it meant being there for Kenma. But Kenma still tries to reserve those nights for when it’s _especially_ bad. And it’s no surprise that it is because of Kuroo. 

“Why don’t you talk to him?” Oikawa offers, just the way he always does when Kenma gets like this. Because he knows, from the way Kuroo looks at him when Kenma is mentioned, that it is not over for either of them. 

“No.”

But he also knows that Kenma would rather swallow a spider than talk to Kuroo openly about his feelings.

“Okay,” Oikawa says, not pushing it further. 

This might be the right way to do things, but it is only the right way for Oikawa. To talk things out and yell, if necessary, to be followed by a dramatic exit. It may not always work, but it works often enough.

But with Kenma, he learned within a short span of time, things are different. 

Kenma talks about his emotions openly, but only after exhausting every other option available and pushing himself to the point where it drives him crazy to not talk about it, and even then he’ll talk about them with Oikawa first. And until he reaches that point, whenever someone pushes him towards doing something he’s not ready to do yet, he gets very anxious and shuts down, not leaving his room sometimes. Oikawa knows, because he made Kenma shut down a couple of times, and seeing the reluctance in Kenma’s eyes when he cracked his door open to look at Oikawa, the hesitant words that fell from his mouth when they made up hurt enough for Oikawa to not attempt such a thing again. 

Despite this, he cannot hold himself back from offering an exit to Kenma, just in case. 

“I can talk to him if you want to meet him, and make it look like a coincidence.”

“Thanks, Tooru,” Kenma says, clearly lost in his own thoughts. “But no.”

Oikawa nods, and notices that the water is finally boiling. He takes out a cup, puts in a bag of chamomile tea, and pours the water in.

“There you go.” He places it gently in front of Kenma.

He takes a seat across him, and sips his coffee tentatively. His eyes dart to the clock on the wall. There is still time.

“You want to talk about it?” 

“Not really,” Kenma says. 

“Do you blame yourself for still loving him, Kenma?” Oikawa asks nonetheless, slight worry in his voice. Even if they won’t go into detail, this needs to be addressed.

Kenma sighs. “How are you so observant at this ungodly hour of the morning?”

“It’s my brilliant personality. Can’t help it.”

Kenma snorts. He bows his head slightly and answers the actual question.

“Yeah.”

Oikawa doesn’t push that further, either. Kenma already knows he shouldn’t blame himself for his own feelings; this is something he himself reminds Oikawa daily. So he lets the reminder linger in the air, unspoken among the humidity and the smell of coffee, and he sips his coffee.

They sit in comfortable silence for a while. Oikawa watches Kenma’s face change expressions under the flying particles of the newborn sun, and waits for him to say something, if he wants to. If not, he’ll wait for the time he’s ready to speak about it.

Kenma doesn’t speak.

Oikawa gulps down the rest of his coffee, and stands up to go to the bathroom, finally, but doesn’t do so before placing a quick kiss on Kenma’s forehead.

When he enters the bathroom, an unexpected but lovely gesture awaits him. Oikawa looks at his morning skin routine products placed on the counter, albeit in slightly wrong order. He feels his heart swell, and the warmth envelops him whole. 

“I love you,” he murmurs to himself, and his smile doesn’t fade until he hops into the shower and shrieks at the cold water.

*

“Okay,” Oikawa announces after sipping his sweet, warm coffee. “He’s a dick.”

“He is,” Yahaba whines, and rubs his face with his fingers. “I seriously don’t know what to do.”

“Are you two monogamous?” Oikawa chirps, because _how_ do they make it through if it’s so?

“Yeah,” Yahaba sighs. “Although I’m starting to have doubts.”

“What?” Oikawa asks, shocked. “You think he’s cheating on you? And you’re still trying to make this shit _work?”_

“No, not like that,” Yahaba says, his hand shoving away the suggestion. “Not sexually, anyway. But there have been _weeks_ when we didn’t see each other, and Oikawa-san,” he bends over, “we live _three streets away.”_

Dear god. _What_ is this?

“He doesn’t set aside time for you,” Oikawa concludes, brow raising again.

Yahaba nods miserably.

*

  1. **You're both totally committed.**



“Sorry, I can’t tomorrow.” Oikawa taps mindlessly onto his phone. “I have plans.”

“But Oikawa,” Matsukawa whines with his coffee cup in hand. “At least come _this_ Friday. You _never_ come out on Fridays, dude! If I didn’t know you, I’d think you’re an introvert.”

“Mattsun, I have plans with Kenma, in case you didn’t hear the last 20 times I explained,” Oikawa says, head not raised. “My Fridays are full. There are literally six more days to the week. Pick one of those.”

“Makki, give me a hand.” 

“Sorry, man,” Hanamaki replies. “You know we tried to drag him out before. The dude is loyal to Kenma and their movie nights. Nothing we can do about it.” 

“Jesus christ, Makki,” Matsukawa puts down his paper cup with anger. “Fine. _Fine._ We’ll go out on Saturday.” 

“Okay~” Oikawa says, voice lilting. “Now excuse me, if you two have nothing more to bitch about, a hot bath awaits me at home.”

“... and your 13 step beauty routine,” Mattsun snickers. 

Oikawa shoots him a look. “You’d do a 30 step routine if it would give you _my beauty,_ asshole,” he says, and leaves the table to pay for his coffee. 

When he reemerges he’s holding another cup and a paper bag. 

“Aren’t you overdosing on calories, Oiks?” Mattsun asks with a grin. 

“ _Don’t_ call me that. And these are for Kenma,” Oikawa says with an indignant huff. “See you later, peasants.”

They exchange farewells, and Oikawa tries to finalize his plans for the week in his head as he walks home. 

He rings the doorbell with his shoulder, and Kenma opens the door with ruffled hair and dark circles around his eyes. 

Oikawa wordlessly extends him the tea and the bag, and proceeds to take his shoes off. 

“How did you know I was craving these?” Kenma asks, exhausted but surprised.

“You always crave cheesecake and jasmine tea when you pull all-nighters,” Oikawa says, pleased with himself. 

“Thank you, Tooru.” Kenma’s eyes glisten, and he manages to smile. 

“Anything for you, baby,” Oikawa says, finally fully in the house. He kisses Kenma on the forehead, and heads to the kitchen. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“No, but I should be done by tomorrow afternoon,” Kenma says, following him. 

“Okay,” Tooru says, putting the kettle on. “Did you take your meds?”

Kenma nods. “I just don’t know about the color scheme… Like… I programmed everything but the characters’ colors are just… Like….” He gestures with his hands, completely vague and incoherent. 

“Ken-chan,” Oikawa says, turning to hug him. “Let’s take a nap.”

Kenma sighs into the hug. “But if we end up sleeping throughout the whole night, our movie night will have to be postponed into later hours or maybe another day. Though I’ll do my best to catch up.” 

“It’s okay, I’m home tomorrow anyways.”

He doesn’t think it’s necessary to mention he’ll stay with Kenma on their promised days, no matter what.

“Okay.”

*****

“Okay now,” Oikawa says, clearly exhausted. “Tell me _one_ good reason you stay, and I will try to preserve my respect for you.” 

“Ah,” Yahaba says, huffing a laughter. “At least he supports me when I try to do something; like, even if it’s something that he didn’t recommend, as long as he approves. When I progress, he tells me he sees it and holds my hand, or something.”

“Wow, simple human interaction,” Oikawa muses. “What a reason to stay.”

“Don’t say it like that, Oikawa-san,” Yahaba whines. “I’m trying to make it work.”

“But like, _why?”_ Oikawa asks, serious and eyes wide with curiosity. “Why? There are so many other people out there who will appreciate you for _everything_ you do _._ And hand holding? Seriously? Have you guys heard of physical intimacy?”

“I know,” Yahaba groans. “But he’s trying. I swear he is.”

“Sorry, Yahaba-chan,” Oikawa says, not the least bit sorry. “I just don’t see it.”

*

  1. **You consistently appreciate each other.**



There is a gentle knocking on the door.

“Come in,” Kenma says, gaze focused on his screen. He moves the characters, and clicks his tongue. “Jesus…”

“I’ve arrived carrying the fruits of mother nature,” Tooru announces himself. He places the plate of fruit and cup of tea onto Kenma’s desk. The unprompted gesture reminds Kenma that he’s loved and it softens his frown, but it goes unnoticed by his conscious thoughts while Kenma draws back from the screen and exhales. 

“What do we have here?” 

“Hmm… So this is the finalized version of the characters,” Kenma says, pointing to the screen. “Do you think this is enough?”

“I think it already looks much better than it did half an hour ago,” Tooru says as he ruffles Kenma’s hair. “I have this feeling that you’ll get the highest grade for this final if you continue at this rate.” 

“I don’t care about the final-” 

“You care about the professor’s opinion of you, yes,” Tooru interrupts him, still looking at the screen. “And you’ve put so much time and effort into this. If he doesn’t recommend you even after that, he should lower his fucking standards from the thermosphere to something actually achievable.” 

Kenma usually hates being interrupted, but he cannot feel the slightest bit of annoyance when Tooru reminds him that he _knows_ Kenma. It is a soft, lukewarm feeling that extends to the end of his fingertips, and it calms Kenma down so deeply that he can feel his constant thoughts and worries getting quieter. 

Growing up in a neglectful house does not help one feel at peace with one’s own existence, especially his own personality. But Tooru recognizes him, simply _knows_ him. And he doesn’t judge him, either. He accepts Kenma as he is, and doesn’t try to change him for the sake of his own comfort.

He knows Kenma only consumes sugar while he’s working, but, Kenma only realizes now, Tooru’s trying to give him at least somewhat healthy sugar. He knows Kenma overworks himself, and suffocates under his extremely high standards, so he visits him every half an hour to make sure things are still under control. He knows Kenma gets wound up in the rhythm, so he’s always there to offer an alternative.

Tooru knows his antics, and doesn’t complain, doesn’t try to change anything, just shifts accordingly.

Tooru _cares._

“Okay,” Kenma says, calmer and warmer. 

“Oooh, what are _these?”_ Tooru asks, suddenly interested in Kenma’s sketchbook.

“Those are space slugs,” Kenma says with a lighthearted smile as he hears Tooru gasp in awe. “They are actually sea slugs. I just named them space slugs because I needed to sketch something to distract myself.”

“I _love_ them!” Tooru beams. “Can I have this one?”

“Her name is Cassandre,” Kenma says absent-mindedly. 

“I want her. Pleaseplaeasepleaaaseeeeeee, Kenmaaaaaa-”

“Okay.” Kenma rolls his eyes, slightly smiling, not mentioning that they’re actually drawn to be given to Tooru. 

Oikawa kisses Kenma on his head. Kenma’s smile widens imperceptibly.

“I’ll treasure her forever,” Tooru says with love, holding the paper with a fluffy pink slug rolling over herself. “Let me know if there’s anything I can help you with.”

“Thank you, Tooru,” Kenma says, voice soft as he still looks at the screen, back at tweaking the colors. 

“Anytime, baby,” Tooru says, turning to leave the room. “Also, if you wanna take a break tonight, I can dye your hair.”

“Oh,” Kenma says, pausing his work. He looks at the wall above his computer. “Do you have the time?”

Tooru makes an incoherent sound. “I don’t have anything else to do. And I miss spending time together – you’ve been overworking yourself over this.”

Kenma smiles again, affectionate and tender. “Actually, why not?”

“Okay, I’ll get the things ready,” Tooru says, blowing him a kiss. “Let me know when!”

He shuts the door after him silently.

Kenma smiles at the fruit plate, and resumes his work.

*

“I understand why you feel that way, and it’s valid,” Yahaba says kindly. “But really, he’s trying.”

“The feelings that should be validated are not mine, Yahaba-chan. They’re yours,” Oikawa points out.

Yahaba’s eyes gaze off to the distance. “I know.”

“So, does he at least acknowledge your feelings or is he a nightmare there too?”

“He at least says ‘I understand what you’re feeling’.”

“Oh my _god_ .” Oikawa exclaims. “What a wonderful human being! Is he that nice _all_ the time?”

“Oikawa-san, don’t make fun of me,” Yahaba whines. 

“You call _that_ validation?” Oikawa asks, incredulous.

*

  1. **You both feel validated by the other.**



Oikawa pouts down at the dining table, his chin propped on his palm. “I don’t know, Kenma.” 

“Hmm?” Kenma raises his head from his dinner. “What is it?”

“I don’t know why I’m feeling like this,” Oikawa says after a silence.

“Like what?”

“I feel like… I don’t want to continue this thing we have, whatever it is. Me and Ushiwaka, I mean.” 

“Okay,” Kenma says. “Do you wanna talk about why?”

“I don’t know…. I don’t know why.”

“That’s okay,” Kenma looks at him, aware that Oikawa is at the brink of panicking. “It’s okay, Tooru.” 

“But _why do I feel like this?”_ Oikawa whines, forehead banging against the wooden table. “Everything seems just _fine._ So _why_ do I feel like this?” he repeats himself. 

“Well, sometimes we feel things we can’t foresee,” Kenma says, chewing his food. 

“But should I feel like this?”

“There are no ‘should’s or ‘must’s when it comes to feeling, Tooru,” Kenma reminds him.

Oikawa groans into the table. 

“I just don’t want to continue, at _all,”_ he says, taking his head into hands. 

“Then don’t.”

“But how do I explain this to him?”

“Take your time.” Kenma reaches over and holds one of Oikawa’s hands. “Feelings are messy. Take your time until you understand them, and then you can explain them to someone else.”

“Okay,” Oikawa sighs. “I feel like shit.”

“Tooru,” Kenma pleads. “It’s okay.” 

“Kenma I _know_ but I don’t want to _deal_ with this right now.” 

“Then don’t.” Kenma squeezes his hand. “Let’s watch _Alien: Covenant_.”

“Really?” Oikawa’s head shoots up with a hopeful expression. “But you hate that movie.”

“It’s okay,” Kenma says, shrugging. “You’ll owe me a favor.”

“Awww, Kenmaaaaaaaaa~~” Oikawa says with a smile. “I love youuuuuuuu~~”

“I love you back, Tooru,” Kenma says, smiling back.

*

“I was going to ask what you’d think I should do,” Yahaba says reluctantly. “But I think I got my answer.”

“And what is that?” Oikawa asks, leaning back. 

“You think I should break up with him.”

“Actually, no.” Oikawa hums. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“What?” Yahaba asks, utterly confused. “But you… you bashed-”

“Yeah, he’s _terrible_ with relationships and it sounds like he owns a single brain cell and that cell is not specialized in emotional intelligence,” Oikawa says. 

“Wow. Okay.” 

_“But,”_ Oikawa continues, “There is clearly something that makes you stay with him. Maybe he’ll teach you a lesson you need to learn, like the fact that some people never change no matter how much you try. Or maybe he will change, and you’ll see that faith can bring you to places. Maybe it’s about not looking for all the affirmation and love you need in romantic relationships. Who knows.”

There is a silence. Yahaba looks at him, mouth gaping.

Oikawa shrugs. “I honestly can say that I don’t believe in this relationship, but whatever,” he says nonchalantly, not a bit embarrassed. “It’s your relationship, and it’s your time and effort you’re spending. None of my business.”

Yahaba keeps staring. He closes his mouth. “Wow, Oikawa-san. Thank you.”

“Sure, Yahaba-chan. Thanks for the coffee,” he chirps, standing up. “I need to be home by 5, though. So. See you later!” He waves. 

“Friday plans? Enjoy,” Yahaba says with a kind smile. 

“Yeah, thanks.” 

Oikawa walks home with a genuine smile on his face, thinking that Kenma probably already is making popcorn. He stops at a shop to buy them a bottle of sake. 

Why not celebrate the poetry they have between them on any given day?

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! You can yell at me on my [twitter](https://twitter.com/mamabrainrot)
> 
> Any and all love commented towards me will be forwarded to my wife, who is my inspiration for almost anything. <3


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